When I invited my brother Dave and his family to stay for the weekend, I thought it would bring us closer. We’d always had a distant relationship—growing up, he was the golden child, while I was the afterthought. I spent years watching our parents celebrate every little thing he did while quietly overlooking my own efforts. Still, I hoped adulthood had changed things.
I planned everything—cleaned my apartment, bought groceries, and cooked a full meal from our childhood: pot roast, mashed potatoes, and apple pie. When Dave, his wife Stacey, and their two kids arrived, I was thrilled. The energy felt warm and promising. Mom came later, tired from her flight, and I tucked her into the guest room to rest while I started dinner.
After hours of cooking, I called everyone to the table. No response. Dave was glued to the TV, Stacey to her phone, and the kids to their tablets. I called again—still nothing. I ended up eating alone at the table, heart sinking as I realized no one even cared. After twenty minutes, I began scraping food into the trash.
That’s when Dave noticed. “Why are you throwing it away?” he asked. I explained, holding back tears. Before he could respond, Mom emerged from her room. “She’s not your servant,” she said, her voice sharp. She laid into him, defending me—something I’d longed to hear my whole life.
That night, Dave apologized. For once, he really saw me. It wasn’t everything, but it was a start. And finally, I felt seen.
